


love you more.

by Xetera



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, End of the World, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nuclear Warfare, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xetera/pseuds/Xetera
Summary: fi·nal·i·ty/fīˈnalədē,fəˈnalədē/nounthe fact or impression of being an irreversible ending."the abrupt finality of death"_Dream wakes up to an emergency alert warning- and a blossoming love forced to confess in its prime.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 70
Kudos: 137





	love you more.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic playlist: [Finality](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6AwWLOIdXktXH9DUNg7WUE?si=rrYw4oovRRiO9SOkwsFkYg)

The day is unremarkable in its beginning.

Dream sighs into the morning light that’s stressing his eyelids. There's a few thoughts that stir in the early moments of waking- _hunger, work, Patches, feed Patches, minecraft, George, get up_. These thoughts are trivial to him, only preceding days eventful and worth living, until he can wake up to the next.

Today is not one of those days.

No; he’s basking in a state of peace he’s always taken for granted. Basking, waiting for the moment it hits that the yellow haze is from an oncoming storm, of which he’s found himself in the eye.

13:00 GMT-5 | 18:00 GMT

4 HOURS REMAINING

Dream proceeds like normal, throwing the sheets off and arching his back with a deep inhale. His mornings are systematic. He follows his routine.

A glance at his bedside clock shows he slept through his alarm. It’s not unlike him, but he wishes he could have more daylight- not that it matters in streaming- and not that he streams anyway. Make all the jokes you please; Dream loves what he does, even if he can’t do as much of it as he wants. 

Gratitude. His mornings begin with gratitude.

_phone_

_look at phone_

The first thing he notices is the number of notifications. For someone who filters out as many as possible, this is... staggering. It doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary, though. A small lump forms in his throat. That can wait, for now he needs to get up.

Dream brushes his teeth while staring at the mirror, brain idly buzzing as his consciousness renders back in. The past few weeks have had an underlying sense of fatigue. The world is tense and growing tenser, and the internet is- well, the internet. Such is life. 

After he shakes his toothbrush off, he stalls at the sink, brain whirring into action. He outlines his plans for the day, letting his thoughts wander like wayward sparks. Dream has two appearances to make on other streams, a video to film, a brainstorming meeting. In particular, he’s excited to pitch an idea to George.

If he had no other motivator to invent new and exciting concepts, George’s excited praise would be enough to keep him going. That reminds him to catch up on social media for the day. Dream flops onto his bed and unplugs his phone.

That lump in his throat tugs at him again. The seconds before the black mirror brightens the dim of his room feel alarmingly slower. He presses his thumb to the sensor. His phone unlocks. The screen is flooded edge to edge with a bright white warning.

**Emergency Alert**

BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO ORLANDO, FLORIDA. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ETA: 5:00 PM EST.

The message was sent last night. 

Midnight. He’s been doomed since midnight.

He waits for the rusty engine of time to rev, for the pistons to start firing, but the sound of scraping metal never whirs into action. Everything is still.

Dream’s immediate thought goes to his family, his siblings, his parents. Ice-cold chills creep over his skin. All of his immediate family in the area are on a plane right now, going on vacation to California. When they land, they’ll have nothing to return to.

Will they land? 

How much of the country is this happening to? _What the fuck is happening?_

He opens Google to search for answers, but he doesn’t need to go any further than the front page. Every inch of his home page is big, bold headlines.

“The world is ending,” they say.

The _world._

A New York Times article outlines the growing political tensions of the past few months, the expected outcome of some military conflict, the implications of nuclear attack. It’s all very pragmatic and neat data laid out by intellectuals behind office desks, but he doesn’t care about any of it. Dream needs to know how bad, how _much_ , in words his most primitive lizard brain can understand.

Upon further scrolling, he sees a forecast, based on what the Pentagon has released to the public.

The top hundred cities in the U.S. More than that in Russia and China. All wiped like they were never there. It was a back and forth, a response to a response. A long pissing contest of revving up nuclear launch that went too far. On paper, “they did what they had to.”

Realistically, Dream knows the world won’t end in a bang. The few small craters will be the least of the Earth’s problems. Ages of nuclear winter, it says. A climate bad enough to kill off anyone who didn’t melt where they stood. Radiation enough to make you wish you’d been in the blast radius.

He supposes he doesn’t have to worry about the radiation. He almost laughs.

He’s going to be sick.

If his phone wasn’t ringing, he would have been frozen standing here. He watches his hand answer the tone.

“Hello?” he asks, emotionless.

“ _Dream_?” Sapnap’s voice is hoarse. He says his name like he can’t believe it. “You hadn’t been picking up for hours, I was going to give up.”

“I… just woke up,” Dream replies.

“Oh, Dream,” Sapnap whispers.

“Yeah.”

They sit quietly for a few moments. Dream swallows hard.

“I’m just calling to see if you’re- well, obviously you’re not okay. None of us are. I’m… I’m making sure all of my friends aren’t alone right now,” Sapnap says.

“What about you?” Dream asks. A fleeting, selfish thought chews at the back of his mind.

_Please be alone._

“I’m with family right now. I’m just doing the rounds, but I’m spending the last hours at my dad and stepmom’s place. They’re expecting one in Houston.” Sapnap replies. His voice breaks more than once.

“Good. You should be with your family,” Dream says.

“Are you?” Sapnap asks.

“No.”

“Oh.”

Dream is completely still, the reality of this having yet to hit him.

“I think I’ll stream or something,” he says.

“Are- are you sure? You’re gonna go live right now?” Sapnap asks, colored with worry.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” Dream replies.

“I’m outside right now, but I could keep you on the line, have you on speaker in the living room. Like you were here,” Sapnap offers.

“I couldn’t ask that of you. There’s people who probably need comfort right now, anyway,” Dream says.

“What about you? What about your comfort?”

He feels comatose.

“I can handle myself. Thanks, man,” Dream says.

“What about George? I think he’s by himself right now,” Sapnap says.

In the mayhem of sudden news, Dream hadn’t had a chance to think about that- his feelings for George. His lips tighten into a line at how he always smiles at George’s face, never fails to flutter at George’s voice. Dream is now painfully conscious of how he’s his first thoughts when he wakes, last thoughts when he sleeps. It’s delicate puppy love, only a few months in the making. 

No, not love. He won’t call it love, it’ll hurt him if he does. 

What is he supposed to do? Confess _now_? He couldn’t. He’ll have to swallow up these feelings, hoping they won’t crawl out when he calls George. 

_When_ he calls George.

Because he’ll have to call him.

Because he has to say goodbye.

Because this is the end.

Sapnap is still on the line.

He pauses, holding the weight of this final conversation on his shoulders. “Sapnap? I- I really, I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me. Everything I have, I wouldn’t have it without you. It’s always been you and me, throughout everything, I- fuck, I owe you the world. I love you, man.”

Sapnap exhales, shaky and fragmented. “I love you too, dude,” he says, as if it isn’t the last time. “Take care. Please.”

They nod against their phones, sharing an unspoken pact that this is the best they can do, neither able to conceptualize the finality of it. He says “bye,” as if it were any other time. Sapnap hangs up. And… that’s it.

Every time he entertained the thought of doomsday, he thought he’d be panicked or hysterical, fighting to cherish his final moments with the people he loves. Right now? He’s utterly, devastatingly numb.

The sinking realization that he’s alone, truly alone, and will be for the rest of his life is crushing. The rest of his life. That’s a thought beyond his comprehension.

“This isn’t happening.”

He doesn’t say it to anyone in particular. He says it frankly. Unfiltered, the words manifest themselves. It’s a simple conclusion. Of course this isn’t happening. They said the world would end in 2012, not that he knows who “they” is. “They” must be wrong. It’s that simple.

“Potentially,” all the news outlets said. Potential.

So much potential.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

No. No, no, _no_. No- no? 

No; no.

Fear, like whiplash fierce enough to break him, it sets in and snaps him into a state of toxic shock. This isn’t shivers, it isn’t goosebumps, this is full-body _panic_. His first instinct is to run to the bathroom and throw up every drop of his insides, but he thinks, really thinks about the gravity of this world-wide ultimatum.

The first place he runs to is his art room.

It’s lined wall-to-wall with illustrations and crafts from across the world, things people made for him and only him. Things that he wants to now cradle and hold, kicking and screaming against the end. He wants to cry at the thought of the countless pages curling up at the edges into black.

It hits him that it'll be more sudden than that. 

Everything will just vanish.

No slow crash and burn, no gradual descent into chaos. Not for him. There’ll be a white so blinding it’ll consume his entire life, his whole world like a flash. Like it was never there.

 _No_ , he thinks to himself. It won’t. Because this isn’t happening.

His next thought is, _oh fuck_. A hand flies to his mouth.

He runs to his bathroom.

Acid burns his tongue, choking in his throat. All he can do is let it.

19:00 GMT | 14:00 GMT-5

3 HOURS REMAINING

George paces the room, staring at his phone with fingers tugging at his hair. He’s going to go insane waiting for a call, any call. His body is worn out and his eyes are puffy, having gotten the alert right before bed. Did it have to be today? Part of him is praying the universe has mercy on him and lets his family have service out at his nan’s house, just for a moment.

Sapnap’s call was his last moment of solace, being the only thing keeping George grounded thus far. He’s not sure if he’d feel better or worse if his mom saw him like this- a hair’s breadth away from hysteria. 

Earlier, George made the mistake of looking in the mirror. He’s never looked like this- pale beyond recognition, weary and broken. Some posts recommended continuing the day like any other, following your normal rituals. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? Shower, put your socks on one foot at a time, turn on your computer and go about the rest of the night.

George couldn’t shake off the trembling panic if he wanted to. He’s burdened by a crippling inability to ignore the impending expiry date. So he’ll continue this, walking in circles around his empty house until he can’t anymore.

If he keeps pacing, he doesn’t have to pick up his phone, he doesn’t have to reach out of his island of isolation, he doesn’t have to face things he’ll never get to do. He can sink out here in the depths of crushing grief, waiting to be swallowed whole, hoping for some shred of hope to come in the voice of a friend.

Most everyone has the privilege of being with someone. George considered driving several hours out to his grandmother’s house in the countryside, but the highways are choked, and he doesn’t have hours. Not that he’d want to spend his remaining time with no cell service or wifi. Of his friends, most of them sent at least a text. Sapnap did his part. Dream… 

He’s been radio silent. All George wants is to hear his voice, even if just for a moment. Someone that never fails to light up every inch of his face, send him reeling, laughing, crashing- every interaction a harmony of easy rapport and nervous tension. All George wants right now is Dream.

He could lose Dream.

After all these hours to process what’s happening, he still can’t stomach the thought.

Distractions.

Twitter.

As one would expect, the timeline is more of a mess than George is. The trending page is half tags for heartfelt sentiments, half for macabre jokes about the end of times. Both are equally balanced with underlying dread, even the most clever, well-constructed punchline still laced with hints of fear. That’s human nature at its finest. Some still go laughing into the end over their own tears.

George sets his phone down, burying his face in his hands. He could use a good laugh about now. He could use anything that isn’t blaring reminders of what’s to come, anything mundane.

By some cruel divine providence, his phone vibrates on his desk.

dreamwastaken is live:

you don’t have to be alone.

This is what he wanted, isn’t it?

Dream’s voice comes in over his headphones, sounding awfully worse for wear. It hurts to hear him like this. His viewership is higher than what George would expect, however, realization sets in slowly. There are that many people who are alone. There are that many people who only have this.

 _As if you aren’t one of them_ , George thinks to himself.

Dream’s words thus far have blurred beyond recognition. George grounds himself, straining to focus on what he’s saying.

“Hi. Hello.”

He welcomes, as he’s done countless times before. Despite sounding gravely and tense, his disposition seems no different than usual. Dream must be keeping it together for his viewers- something George can’t imagine doing right now.

"I know I haven't done a speedrunning stream in a while. I just- I figured a lot of people needed someone right now. I think this is the least I can do. Just… let's have a good stream, yeah?”

The onslaught of paragraphs fly by faster than anyone could read. Each of these people, they’re all individuals with lives. The shrill sonder wracks his brain, leaving blisters in his mind. Each name, each message, was typed by someone who is the protagonist of their own story. 

It’s naive, really, but George goes to Twitter, intent on seeing as many as possible. He’s determined to spend at least a few moments absorbing the existence of other human beings while can.

Dream narrates a speedrun in the background while he takes in the weight of his timeline. There’s a few posts circling, as these things do, but a few in particular draw his attention.

One he thinks is interesting is the link to a song, with a time listed under the caption, saying, “ _Across the world, we’ll all listen together at the same time. Let yourself cry. Let yourself mourn. None of us will be alone._ ” It’s a silly idea, playing cheesy sad music in the silence of your room, sniffling while you think about losing everything you’ve ever known, clinging to the hope that somewhere, hundreds of miles away, someone is doing the same, and feeling a little less afraid.

He bookmarks the tweet.

Secondly, he sees one making the rounds, posted by even some of the biggest creators and his own friends, _“If this is the end, I love you_ ,” followed by tagging another account. One of those copy-past chains, he supposes.

George’s eyes flicker between his phone screen and his computer. How could you be comforted by confessing your love, if this is the only reason you’re doing with it? He can’t tell what’s worse- sharing your feelings for a few moments together or dying with that knowledge.

As he looks back to Dream's stream, the grief comes in tides, pushing and pulling like a great force of nature. He could do it right now, send out a tweet confessing his love in a grand display. Dream could respond right now, feeling the same. It should be poetic, really- two friends, parallel in their longing, brought together by the end of times.

It feels pathetic.

There's always rejection. 

Or, even worse, reciprocation.

If Dream felt the same? He wouldn't know what to do with that. He already doesn't know.

Speaking of Dream, it’s been silent for far too long.

His stream is a still image, staring into the return portal with flecks of green experience circling him. For a long time, he doesn’t say a word.

15:00 GMT-5 | 20:00 GMT

2 HOURS REMAINING

Dream becomes painfully aware of the tears on his keyboard. To the naked eye, there's not much difference in his playstyle, but to his personal standards, he might as well be blindfolded. Arm unsteady, he tries to keep it together, he _needs_ to keep it together.

The initial shock should've subsided by now. Even here, chat flooded with final, heart-wrenching declarations of love and appreciation, it hasn't hit.

But when it hits, it's worse than he could have anticipated.

Dream couldn't say what set him off. It could've been the delay, everyone having time to make peace and come to terms with their fate while he was thrust head-first into alarming news headlines. It could have been Sapnap's phone call, one of his closest friends in life, and George’s lack thereof.

If he had to bet, though, the straw that broke the camel's back? The donation that rolled in a good ten seconds ago.

" _If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be_?"

The text to speech drawls out, cold and inhuman. His first thought is the plane, barreling towards the west coast with his family on board, no idea what would become of them, what he wishes he could say. He thinks about his friends, the ones in the country, right in the center of an impending warhead. He thinks of those outside its borders, who'll have to watch this happen, who'll have to live to see a world so void of life and empty of promise.

A chat message scrolls by.

_it sucks that we couldnt have seen this coming. we couldnt have prevented it_

_No_ , Dream thinks, _we could have._ It was known. The signs were there. The Pentagon, the FBI, the CIA, all those people in their stiff collared dress shirts _knew_. It's known how bad, how devastating just one bomb could be, it's the thing they raise you in warning of- in schools, on TV.

It's not fair.

He grips his mouse with an unsteady hand.

This isn't _fair_.

_GEORGE??1?_

gogy is in chat

HI GEROGE :)

WHATT

is george alone rn??

Dream's heart drops toward the deepest pit of his chest and sinks until it bores a hole in the floor. Sapnap mentioned George was alone. All of his feelings about George wash over in a hurricane. There's so much "could have."

He could have waited a few months, years maybe, for love to be nourished and grow. They could have fallen into an easy rhythm of flirting, blurring lines between romance, forging a will-they-won't-they worthy of its own rom-com.

He just needs more time. It wouldn't take much. Just a few months, enough to experience the falling part of falling in love. If he had days, even, he could properly sort out his head.

If only he had _time_. He would do anything for some time.

The helplessness is irrepressible.

Dream hears the low rattling of his keys as his hands tremble. He realizes after he beat the dragon, he stopped moving entirely. He’s left feeling rung-out, jarred by every different emotion he was thrown into at once.

He wonders how much longer he can pretend he’s not crumbling.

By the looks of his chat, not much.

Worried messages scroll past at the speed of light, reeling him back to the present, once again in his body, in his mind. Some persistent recess of his brain is determined to push forward, suck up his pleas and put on a brave face. He can’t listen to that part of himself. Not now.

Dream can’t do this.

“Chat, I have to end stream. I was going to go as long as I could but… I- I need a break,” he utters out, betraying every subconscious voice telling him he owes more. “Remember to take care of yourselves, if not for you, then for me. I know, technically, I don’t know you exist. But, I know you’re someone worthy of comfort, even now. So go easy on yourself and think about something that makes you happy- if it’s me, my friends, your family, your hobbies, anything. I love you, and I care about you, and though I can’t promise it’ll be okay, I promise that you’re not alone.”

Even this, mustering up words of encouragement is draining. He feels like a hypocrite, imparting words of comfort he doesn’t even believe himself.

“Have a good night. I love you all so, so much. Be good to each other.”

His hands fly to end his stream, unable to focus on the parting messages people are leaving him.

The moment it's over and his tabs are closed, he pulls his sleeves up and stares blankly into the creases of his hands. They look foreign, like they don't belong to him. The numbness sets back in, no longer in frenzied denial but rather a cold, nod of acknowledgement- a mutual understanding between him and the universe of the fate he is helpless to stop.

Dream wants to submit to the pushing of the current, threatening to wash over and pull him into a state of inertia. He's come undone, been pulled apart at the seams by nothing but the notion of death; how should he have any power to continue?

It would be so easy to give up. It would be so satisfying to do something he won’t live long enough to regret.

As his mind dips someplace darker, his phone begins to ring.

When he sees who it is, he scrambles to answer.

“Hello?” Dream sputters.

“Hey.”

George is barely audible, sounding unsure in his decision to call.

“Hi.”

“Are you… what happened on stream?” he asks.

Dream doesn’t know how to answer that.

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Well. I’m… checking in,” George says.

“Are… are you alone?” Dream asks, voice stalling.

_Please don’t leave me. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when you hang up._

“Don’t worry. I won’t hang up,” George says softly. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Dream’s nerves settle, tension easing in his gut. As selfish as it is, he’s glad. He doesn’t want to think about his night would’ve gone if he had to spend the rest of it alone.

“So. How’s the weather?” Dream asks with a nervous chuckle. George seems caught off-guard, laughing like he thought he couldn’t. The air is a bit lighter.

“Cold. How about you?” he asks.

“Pretty shit. I would’ve liked to have some sun at the end of the world, at least,” he replies sardonically.

“How are you?” George says before audibly face-palming. “That’s- a stupid question.”

“No, you’re fine. To be honest, I’ve been waiting for someone to talk to,” Dream says. He pauses for a few moments to collect himself, in search of how to compose his thoughts. Too much is occupying his brain- fears, regrets, biting misery- but George waits patiently for him anyway. “I feel scattered.”

“How so?” George asks steadily.

“So many different stages of different, terrible emotions have poured through my head in the past hour alone. It’s like- like I’ve gone through the five fucking stages of grief in my head, before anything’s even happened yet,” Dream says.

“It’s hit everyone in different ways,” George says, stoic.

“It didn’t hit me so much as run me over with a fucking semi. It’s like- like everyone else got _time_ , y’know? Everyone I know was able to see the alert as it happened, say their goodbyes, get to reason with this awful idea in their head,” Dream says.

“It wasn’t any easier. Having time. I had all night and I did nothing with it. I walked in circles. I cried until my face went numb. I thought about my family being hours from here, visiting my grandmother in the country and feeling absolutely helpless.”

“At least you had that.”

They sit in an uneasy quiet. His wall is looking very punchable right now.

“George?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Can I- can I ask you something?” Dream asks.

“Anything,” George replies, not missing a beat.

“Can I cry? On the phone? With you?”

A shaky exhale sounds over the speaker. There’s a shuffling noise, as if George is laying down. Neither of them speak at first, the moment sitting fragile between them. At that moment, Dream’s alarm goes off, set for one hour before…

George seems to notice the time as well.

The dam breaks.

It starts with Dream, overcome by heaving, choking sobs, escaping before he can stop them. His mind was drowned in so much hurt in such a short time, and it all comes flooding out. George sniffles breathlessly on the other end, a tragic harmony of ebbing pain, in unison, an ocean apart.

Dream doesn't know if he's ever opened himself raw like this to anyone, cries speaking louder than words now. It hurts like pouring peroxide on an open wound, stinging but ultimately cleansing.

The volume dies down as he struggles to catch his breath, the blur of his vision shifting back into view as the trembling of his chin settles. George is still gasping quietly, rasping breaths slowing steadily.

They settle into quiet once again.

"George?"

Dream hates how meek he sounds.

"Yes?"

"I feel like- like I'm gonna die," Dream says, almost hysterically.

"I mean, we are." George replies. His accompanying laugh is humorless.

"Yeah," Dream swallows. "We are."

  
  


21:00 GMT | 16:00 GMT-5

>1 HOUR REMAINING

"Alright, alright, another one,” George says, leaning into his fist. “What is something you wish you could’ve done?”

Dream doesn’t seem bothered by any of his questions thus far. He answers like his mind is elsewhere, detached from the emotions he’s expressing.

"It's going to sound like the most trivial, petty thing in the world, but you know what? I was really proud of the next Dream Short. And no one will ever get to see it," Dream says.

“Oh yeah, the Hunger Games showdown one. That was cool,” George muses.

“What about you?" Dream asks. "I feel like you've barely said anything. How are _you_ feeling?"

George was afraid he'd say that.

"I just haven't thought about it," he swallows.

"I just… wanna hear you talk."

That almost hurts him. He didn't want more painful reminders of how Dream makes him feel. His brain is tugged back to his timeline. The post.

"I'm very… I don’t know. Empty. No… stuff,” George says.

“Me too. Maybe we can… I don’t know. Be each other’s stuff?” Dream wheezes.

That gentle laugh tugs at his heartstrings. His heart is aching to be let out of his chest, pleading for reprieve. The post.

The burning, pining under his ribs is as relentless as the grief. George might as well indulge in the lesser of two evils- it’s not like he has anything to lose. He returns to his phone, pulling up the tweet from his bookmarks and opening up their Discord DMs. Dream is already typing, having gone silent, and George hits send before thinking. At least he won’t have to deal with the discomfort of him opening it mid-conversation.

Dream’s message sends.

Two identical posts sit, side by side, hand in hand, one above the other. From both ends of the world, the men take a breath.

“Wh-” George stutters out.

“I-”

“But-”

“Woah," Dream says, simply.

"You-?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” George says. He scrapes a thumbnail along the edge of his phone, sparks lighting up his fingertips. “Me too.”

"I love you.” Dream slips out, unfiltered.

George tenses. 

He wants so desperately to say it back, to be _able_ to say it back.

"I’ve said it before, and I guess, in a way, I mean it the same," Dream adds softly.

"It… was different then."

"I don't know if that's true. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth. It was still love. Now it’s just… a new kind."

He feels resistance against his words, and George can tell Dream’s subconscious tries to force him on the defensive. Inklings of thoughts plague him- _you fucked up_ , _this is not the time_ , _he doesn’t feel the same_.

Time and space take a breath as George forms a thought.

“I love you too. The way you do.” he says.

Something tender and delicate sprouts in his chest, nestled between his lungs. It pushes through the layers of tarmac sorrow, giving him a small hope that’s both comforting and terrifying.

“Can we talk? Unfiltered? About anything? I wanna hear you,” Dream says.

“Sure. If we don’t get things off our chest now, we never will,” George says.

Dream sighs, his computer whirring just loud enough to pick up. He leans back in his chair with a discernible creak.

"I hate this,” he says. “I know that’s- well obviously, this is bad. But, God, I just have to say it. I have to put that out into the world. This sucks and I hate it.” 

“It’s not fair. It’s not _fair_ ,” George says.

“I hate thinking in absolutes. It doesn’t get more absolute than this,” Dream whispers.

“A Monday,” George chuckles with what little strength he has. “The world’s ending on a fucking Monday.”

They share a laugh, a few ounces of pain escaping past his lips as his lungs deflate. Dream’s wheeze that he’s loved so dearly sounds strained and weak, a once vibrant flower now wilted at the edges. George wishes he could’ve seen it in person- wondering if his eyes crinkle, smile curls up at the edges, if his nose wrinkles.

"I never got to meet you. I'll never get to hold you in my arms," Dream says, as if he read his mind.

“Do you wanna try something?” George asks, heart seizing.

“Sure,” Dream says, laced with trepidation.

“Okay,” George starts, hands tremoring. “Place a finger to your neck. Find your pulse, and commit it to memory. Where your hand is? Imagine it’s mine. I’ll imagine this is yours.”

“Okay,” Dream exhales.

“Can you show me? The beat, I mean.”

He takes a few moments before tapping gently against his phone mic, a gentle _th-thump, th-thump, th-thump_. George responds in turn, each rhythmic pitter-patter out of sync, yet harmonious in a way that comforts him.

George reflects on his bitter thoughts from earlier in the evening, when the wound of bad news was fresh. He understands it now, how worth it is to feel your affection requited, even if it’s fleeting.

“This is nice. We only have moments, but, it’s comforting,” Dream muses.

“I’m glad to spend those moments with you,” George replies.

Dream’s breath hitches.

“I don’t want you to stay until the end. I don’t want you to hear me turn into nothing. I don’t- I don’t want you to listen until there’s nothing to listen to anymore,” he whispers.

“I don’t care. I’ll stay as long as I can. A ride or die stays in it ‘til the die.”

A staticky weep shatters the pin-drop silence. He gives Dream the time he needs to let it out. When he doesn’t say anything else, George figures he wants to move on.

“Do you ever think about how we all came from stardust?” Dream asks after a while.

“Not particularly,” George replies, honest.

“The atoms. It was all floating aimlessly for years until it landed here, went through a long chain of events until it all became us. Your body, my body, all from dust jettisoned through space,” Dream hums.

“Wow. That’s pretty… existential,” he says.

“When we’re stars someday, will you be by my side?” Dream asks, trying but failing to maintain a light-hearted tone.

“Of course,” George replies, as serious as he can manage. “I’ll only shine as brightly as you allow.”

“God, that’s pretty cheesy, you know that?” Dream laughs.

“Can’t help it around you,” George mutters.

Dream continues on about space, stardust, supernovas, things that George can barely follow but makes his best effort to. He’s glad to hear Dream ramble about something he’s interested in, admiring the change in his voice as he grows lost in his own words and the vivid world he’s constructed. They _could_ continue on about how terrible this is, how much they wish things were different, but there are only so many synonyms for sadness. Dream talks like he could go on forever, and George is ready and willing to listen.

It’s a hard thing to ignore, though, the ticking of the clock.

Circling back from a tangent, Dream seems to become aware of that fact. The subject is paused very suddenly and the air shifts. 

He takes pause, holding on to a thought, unable to piece it together in speech.

“I know it’s- it’s all very sudden, and we’ve only admitted this today, so this is probably the worst time-” Dream stutters out before George interrupts him.

“Go ahead. I’m listening."

“Can you tell me you love me? Just one more time?”

George smiles a tragic sort of smile.

“I love you, Dream."

“Tell me you’ll love me forever?” he asks, more desperate this time.

“You know what’s coming,” George replies in a small voice.

“It’ll be easy to keep your promise then.”

George takes a deep breath, scraping his thumb along the edge of his phone. He searches for a way to construe his feelings.

“No,” he says. “I’ll love you past that. I’ll love you a million years beyond that. I’ll love you until love stops existing.”

The sob he hears in response is ruinous. George wants to wrap his arms around Dream, soak up his hurt like a sponge, drinking in all the pain at his own expense. The night has turned into a waiting game, inescapably arduous and still leaving them on edge.

“You know what? I feel like I’ve gone through the five stages of grief in a matter of hours, as silly as that sounds,” Dream says.

“What stage are you at right now?” George asks grimly.

“Depression, probably,” Dream laughs. “At least it’s not denial anymore.”

George chews at his lip. He doesn’t know if he had the luxury of indulging in denial. It’s been a consistent, cognizant panic since the beginning. He wonders if it would’ve been easier, to never exceed that state of mind, to go quietly into the dying of the light, never doubting a happily-ever-after.

So George lets go.

“Dream,” he calls out.

“Yes?”

“Lie to me.”

George doesn’t need to elaborate. He knows this isn’t what he needs right now, this isn’t healthy- but it’s not like they would have to deal with the lasting repercussions. So, while he can, Dream lets him have that.

"This will all be okay. We'll wake up tomorrow and carry on like this never happened. This will be a distant memory someday. We can laugh about it when I see you in person, after this is over."

"Just one more. Please."

"Don't fall for me so quickly, George. We'll always have tomorrow."

It’s George’s turn to cry, once again, round tears warping the image on his screen.

“Tell me a story. Something with a happy ending,” he asks meekly.

“Once upon a time, a band of men drove into a distant land with nothing but a drug van and a dream,” a dramatic voice echoes. George laughs, sinking against his mattress. An idle hand opens his Twitter again. His eyes are drawn back to his bookmarks.

“Hey, did you see that tweet? The listen party one?” George asks.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Do… do you want to listen?” George asks.

“Is… is there that little time left?” Dream asks, no louder than a whisper.

“I don’t know. The song should start in a few minutes.”

“Sure.”

Those few minutes are agonizing. Sure enough, the time arrives, after what feels like an eternity. On both ends of the call, each man sucks in a breath in anticipation, Dream counting down the seconds under his breath until the moment they hit play.

“Matt Maltese, huh?” George asks.

“Fitting,” Dream replies.

Mellow piano notes carry them away into someplace elsewhere, crooning vocals enough to bring one to tears with each rise and fall in pitch. The music builds and slows, a journey, a story, bittersweet in an unimaginable kind of way. The feeling captured in the music is something they could only come close to comprehending in this very moment, facing the end, helpless beyond belief. It draws out emotions he wasn’t even aware he was feeling.

George’s mind goes blank, blissfully numb for the first time all day. From the distant realm of his own body, he can hear Dream softly singing along.

And just as quickly as it began, it’s over.

“It’s really hitting me now,” Dream says, once the atmosphere is steady on its feet. "There's no stopping it. Something big enough to end the world is going to hit in _minutes_ and there’s no stopping it."

“Yeah,” George sighs, gazing into the shapes etched into the uneven paint of his ceiling.

"I've never felt so fucking _powerless_." Dream says.

“Let’s feel powerless together, hm?” George offers.

“Yeah. I like that,” Dream replies.

“I’ll welcome death with you,” he says, tying allusions to the song, the last thing he knows they experienced together.

"See you on the other side." Dream says.

He says it so resolute, it makes George’s stomach churn. His staring contest with his clock, he feels, is one he’s soon to fail.

"God, I hope there is one," George murmurs.

"I love you," Dream says, the words nearly ripping out of him, raw and unprompted. "So fucking much."

"I-"

**Author's Note:**

> Funny, that title I chose, isn't it? ;)  
> < . <  
> > . >  
> [@EtceterAngel](https://www.twitter.com/EtceterAngel)


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